


Conversations over Coffee and Cheesecake

by TheBlackCatCrossing



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Greg Capullo is God, M/M, Scott Snyder is a shipper, Superheavy, The dangerous dance continues, dinner date, even away from the masks and costumes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-20 14:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6010584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackCatCrossing/pseuds/TheBlackCatCrossing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did not want to drive the conversation, but something deep inside of him compelled him to continue. There was something frustratingly mysterious about this strange, beautiful man who knew more than what he was saying. Takes place after Batman #48 and #49.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations over Coffee and Cheesecake

Conversations over Coffee and Cake. Synopsis: Takes place just after Batman #48 and before #49. Author's note I had this idea for years but was never compelled to write about it until now. I wanted to do something with Batman and Joker in a 50s diner inspired setting. I would love to give credit for my beta Miss Jo for her thoughtfulness and witty banter. Our late night chats have inspired some crazy ideas! Miss Jo wrote the first two paragraphs and she contributed some brilliant ideas. I can't thank her enough. *************************************************************************************************************************

 

    People still waxed lyrical about the ruined, funky, pre-gentrification Gotham, a place where the wrong turn could be fatal and you couldn't walk anywhere without the crunch of discarded syringes sounding under your feet. Their sentiments were understandable in some ways. The Gotham of old had been filled with interesting nooks and crannies: hidden courtyards, labyrinthine back-streets and sagging buildings playing host to night-time venues that had long since entered into legend, leaving behind memories as thrilling and beautiful as the venues themselves were notorious.

 

     It was no coincidence, some said, that Gotham's urban facelift just happened to correspond with the rise of the costumed rogues; it was almost as if that ragged, desperate, darkly glamorous Gotham of yesteryear had somehow rolled out onto the streets and manifested itself in living, breathing form, a defiant evictee refusing to be driven out, terrorizing the population that had attempted to silence it.

 

     _Lupe's_ was in an area of the city that had so far evaded development, yet signs of imminent change stalked the margins. A building resembling a giant silver bullet rose incongruously behind low, sagging mills and rotting warehouses, glinting in the harsh sunlight. Other skyscrapers loomed behind, giants lurching up a hill in slow, ponderous procession.

 

  "You certainly chose an intriguing spot to meet up again."

 

"I liked it. It has that homely atmosphere. It's like I stepped into another time. Plus, their _empanadas_ are to die for!"

 _Lupe's_ is the kind of place that looked like it was frozen in time and yet was a part of modern life. It was the home to the much renowned Cuban pastries in the city. It was founded by immigrants who wanted to bring the smells and tastes of Havana to their new home while assimilating into their new country.

"That caprese sandwich looks inviting," the thinner of the two men noted on the menu.

"I don't have much of an appetite," said the other, frowning at the menu.

He was the complete opposite of the man sitting in front of him. He was stockier, muscular and was built for working on the docks on a wintery day. Hardly anyone recognized him as Bruce Wayne underneath the scruff.

"No?"

"I ate earlier."

"But a meal is meant to be shared, Bruce. It would feel strange for me if I was the only one who sat here and ate."

"Coming here is strange," Bruce said under his breath. Although his name was well known, Bruce Wayne would have not have been easily spotted in this small family diner. For the owners and their children, he was the man who cut them a check from the Wayne Foundation to help their business which was competing with chains that catered to a more organic taste.

    They knew him only when he was wearing a suit from one of those high end stores that only took the Black Card from its members. There was no way they would recognize him now. He looked more like a drifter than the son of **the** Thomas Wayne of Wayne Enterprises.

   "Out of your league? Would you have preferred something more five star? Thank you." The strange but handsome man acknowledged the waitress who came by to serve them their drinks. A _dulce de leche_ latte for him and a regular black for Bruce.

  "No, no. This is okay."

  "That is not my favorite word." The man reached across for sugar cubes.

   "It's... it's quaint?"

   "Better." He tipped two cubes into his drink and stirred vigorously.

  Bruce put down the menu.

 

   "I don't think I got your name?"

 

  "I thought I did. Ah, no matter. I agreed to meet you here and here I am." "I know and I appreciate it but I need something more concrete."

 

   "This isn't a business meeting, you know. Put away the mental briefcase and office. It's time to relax. There is no room for formalities here." He took a spoon and twirled it inside the cup. "I know you told me that you were one of the last to be rescued after the Joker's attack. You told me that you work in a butcher shop."

 

  "Fantastic memory." The thin man said before he sipped his drink.

 

  "What, what name do you use?" Bruce noted the tone of urgency and quickly gathered himself to make the effort to speak calmly. "I mean, I'm sorry. What do they call you?"

 

   "Sometimes they call me 'Newbie'. Other times they call me 'Fresh Meat'. I feel so dirty sometimes when I hear that, you know?" One side of his mouth curved up in a wry smile. Bruce let out a gentle laugh.

 

   "I'm, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you-"

 

    "Oh, none at all. Hearing you of all people let out a giggle is like a rare treasure. I mean, you probably got your kicks back in the day from high class escorts and wine imported straight from Napa."

 

   "Actually, no. You'd be surprised."

 

The other man raised an eyebrow. "I would?"

 

 "I am more traditional than that."

 

"Really?"

 

  Bruce nodded.

 

  Being the object of scrutiny unnerved him. He wasn't sure why; maybe it was because he'd once lived life under a microscope. Alfred had shown him newspaper clippings of his old life; told him that there had been much gossip and speculation about him, little of which had any basis in fact. In reality, Alfred informed him, he'd go to these highbrow events, show his face, make small talk, then leave after a half hour or so. Alfred hadn't said so directly, but the impression Bruce got was that he'd been something of a homebody, reluctant to stay out late, preferring the comforts of the manor, his bed, his TV and books. It probably had something to do with his parents being gunned down in front of him on his very first night out as a boy.

      Still, he was intrigued by the man sitting in front of him, and his gut feeling told him it wasn't just simple curiosity. He likened the feeling to living in a house for years and years, only to discover an extra floor, a vast basement or entire wing he'd either never seen or had deliberately forgotten. The cryptic way the man spoke and his abstract observations felt vaguely familiar.

 

   "You sure ask a lot of questions. I bet you were some kind of detective. You wanted to be more hands on in the city and help out with the people and so you volunteered your time being the Police Commissioner's personal Sherlock."

   

 

   Bruce chuckled. "Good guess, but I'm afraid not."

 

    He did not want to drive the conversation. Something deep inside of him compelled him to continue but not to answer questions but to be the one who asks them. He knew who he was. He wanted to get to know this enigmatic stranger. He wanted to know more about this man who may or may not be someone he had a common history with. The cryptic way he spoke and his abstract observations felt vaguely familiar. There was something frustratingly mysterious about this strange, beautiful man who knew more than he was saying.

 

"Phooey. Hmmm, well, given your Mountain Man look you were probably into hunting."

 

   "I'm afraid I don't have any traps or skins back at the mansion."

 

   "You probably wrestled alligators."

 

    "That explains the tooth mark by my external oblique on the left."

 

   "Oh?"

 

    "No. Alfred said that it came from a parasailing accident."

 

    The other man frowned.

 

   "Does it still hurt? Want me to kiss it?"

 

    "That won't be necessary." The waitress arrived with a note at hand.

 

  "Are you gentlemen ready?" Her rockabilly hair and bright red lips added a certain aesthetic to the experience.

 

  "I will have the steak _torta_ with a side of plaintain chips." The thin man looked demurely at the other.

 

   "You got it! And for you, sir?"

 

    "I, I won't have anything. Do you have any tea?"

 

   "Don't be so boring! He'll have the pastrami sandwich. A man like that needs all the meat that he can get, I should know."

 

   The girl giggled.

 

    "Fine, you win." Bruce relented. "I am paying, you know. I invited you here."

 

   "The pastrami is fine." The waitress jotted down their orders and left promptly. In order to attract _Yanqui_ dollars, _Lupe's_ owners slowly added American fare to its menu. It prided itself on building a community in a place where cold distance and prompt service was the norm while extended sobremesa conversations over coffee about politics and art were seen as a waste of time.

 

     "You relented very quickly there."

 

   "I didn't. I didn't want to offend you."

 

   "Awww, you are sweet."

 

  Bruce noted the visceral reaction to the other man's sarcastic remark. It was instinctual. He couldn't understand why it stood out to him. It was if it was some clue to this puzzle.

 

   "I thought it would only be fair. I asked to meet up with you in a more intimate setting and I did. You agreed and now it was my turn to do something."

 

   "So this is _quid pro quo_ now?" The thinner man leaned forward, quizzical, chin resting on his palm.

 

  "I just want a name."

 

   The man beamed lazily. "But don't you love this game of mystery?"

 

  "It would be….easier for me. I swear I am not a cop."

 

  "Very well," the thinner man said finally.  They call me 'Jack' down at the butcher shop."

 

    "There. Now that wasn't so hard, Jack"

 

    "No, but you name something you label it. By classifying something, it loses that abstract essence that made it so fascinating in the first place."

 

    "On the contrary, I don't think you are any less interesting now that I know your name. At least Ihave something to refer to you other than 'Excuse me, sir' or 'Um'."

 

  "Well, when you put it that way. Just don't play armchair psychology with me. I just wanted to have lunch with my new friend."

 

   The runner arrived with their warm plates. Although Bruce watched his salt intake, he had to admit that the pastrami sandwich was tasty. Strips of steak between rye bread smothered in spicy Dijon mustard, pepper and Swiss. It was hearty compared to his usual diet of protein shakes. Still, a little indulgence didn't hurt. There was something forbidden about this experience and it wasn't just the sandwich.

 

  Jack was enjoying his steak _torta_ when he asked the waitress about the dessert on the counter.

 

  "That is our Cake of the Week: It's white chocolate and raspberry sauce."

 

    "Can I bother you for a slice, dear?" The waitress nodded. Jack looked at her as she walked away before turning his attention back to his sandwich.

 

   Both men savored their meals quietly for a few moments before Bruce broke the ice.

 

  "I was here when they opened this place. It was a lifetime ago."

 

    Jack looked up.

 

   Truth be told, Bruce did not remember being here but when he told Alfred he planned to meet 'a friend from the park' here for lunch, the butler had promptly unearthed a relevant newspaper clip. Almost a decade had passed since Bruce presented the owners, Lourdes and Raul Sanchez  with a check for $10,000 as a grant. He supported small business and the Sanchez family would be able to provide a unique dining experience in a city that favored hot dogs and pasta.

 

   "As a business, they would stand out more than in Miami-Dade County. Let's put it that way."

 

    "Oh, I believe that. Where else can you get these yummy meat pies?" Jack pointed to the empanadas resting under a dome on the counter. They looked good.

 

  Bruce noted the set-up of the dining area. It was like a place out of a certain period in time and yet it was very modern. There was the older couple enjoying a bowl of black bean soup and tortilla chips.

 

   Over there was a college student with her messenger bag. Her earphones were attached to her mobile device. She was hash tagging her experience. He recognized her as one of his former interns who asked him for a letter of rec to become a columnist as Gotham Weekly.

 

   "I remember when they first started, this wasn't here." Bruce noted the Roy Lichtenstein art work. There were also various posters of Golden Age Hollywood, classic monster and science fiction films.

 

   "I like it. It gives it that vintage feel and you can tell that they know their cinema unlike those pretentious trust fund babies who only collect these for the 'quirky' factor."

 

  "From what I was told, the Sanchez family left just before the Batista government fell. The only good memories they had during that painful period of leaving their families and transition were those films. That is how they learned to speak English. After the embargo, artistic expression was largely suppressed. Lourdes's grandmother sold her baked goods to soldiers and street artists on both sides of the Straits of Florida . The idea of them opening a family restaurant until years later when Raul and Lourdes bounded over a shared dream that captured an idyllic childhood and family tradition. "  

 

    It was another testament to how something positive can grow out of something ugly. That was not to say that he thought bad things were 'good'. Rather, bad experiences should not hinder anything. There were always a way around. There were always methods. There were was always another plan.

 

Method.

 

Plan.

 

Procedure.

 

Arrangement.

 

Order.

 

Detect.

 

   Bruce's desire to know more stemmed from something far more urgent than just collecting information. It wasn't the completist stance of the stamp collector or train spotter, tracking down items, ticking them off then storing them away, collecting them for collection's sake. It was the compulsion to dig deeper, to notice patterns, to make sense of them. Knowing what was behind things; not just the facts, but how these things related to other things.

 

   The waitress arrive with Jack's dessert.

 

  "Oh, yummy! And I am not just talking about the treat, hon. You remind me of a Coke bottle." The girl laughed and blew Jack a kiss.

 

   "You know what I love about this place aside from the fact that you can order potato balls with a turkey on rye AND tell that the rolls was made from the caring hand of a dear old _abuelita_ ? It's a place that has survived into this modern age. a place that has survived into this modern age. Not literally, of course; the business itself isn't that old, I'm talking about the sentiment behind it." He mashed the sides of his cake with the tines of his fork. "These heart home cooked meats are competing with the palates of these college kids who grew up eating chia pudding cupcakes."

 

   "It's a mixture between the old and the new." Bruce observed.

 

  "Not a mixture. More like two parts….coexisting peacefully." Jack said before eating a forkful of his dessert.

 

   "It's a place where two people with different tastes can go on a date."

 

 "Glad you liked it," Jack smiled. Bruce smirked at the suggestion. Jack was a flirt. Bruce wasn't sure if he was choosey in his tastes and he wasn't thinking about what was on his plate either. He preferred not to dwell too much into it.

 

    "It's such a shame that all it will take for this place to go is a chain with enough financial clout and the right people at the city council to agree to it. As someone who works with offal I am very familiar with city sanitation regulations AND its tastes."

 

  "I have close connections to the city council." Bruce negated him. "Or had."

 

   "So you admit to using your influence to enforce public policy?"

 

  "I prefer more like shape than influence. I am not the one writing the drafts or making cases to the mayor, not if I can help it."

 

    "But if it were up to you, would you stop it?"

 

   "Stop what?"

 

   "The moms in their athleisure track suits and fancy fraps from turning this place into a casualty for their ideal rendition of Nappy Valley."

 

   Bruce shrugged. "I can only try to make the mayor or city councilperson try to see my side but economics talks. The Sanchez family are safe. I imagine somebody was able to broker a deal where they wouldn't pay as high property taxes and rent. It was probably a pardon from the city back when No Man's Land happened. It was destroyed and looted." He was just guessing, of course, but then again it felt like he knew, as well. He couldn't explain it, but there it was. Like it had played out before him behind frosted glass.

 

     Jack continued to eat his cheesecake. "There's just something oddly romantic about urban decay," he observed.

 

  "If you are a photographer or an artist sure but renovation brings jobs and stability." While those were facts, renovation also had an effect on those who were not as affluent.

 

  It squeezes out the character, though. It sanitizes it, it contains it. That is what I was referring to earlier when I was referring to classification."

 

   "But, but don't you want stability? You don't know who you are or where you come from. You got a job. Don't you have a girlfriend or someone to go home to?"

 

   "I met a nice girl some months back."

 

"Don't you want her to be safe?"

 

   "She's a sweet girl. Her name is Becky and she helped me out a lot. She volunteered at the hospital in the aftermath of the Joker's attack. That's where I met her. There were people who had brain injuries, like me, who couldn't remember a thing about what happened to them." Jack looked down. "The hospital staff were stretched to the limit, it was bad. So they brought in these patient befrienders, just to talk to people, help give them a sense of place, maybe trigger a memory or two. A therapeutic thing."

 

   "And Becky befriend you?"

 

   "She did indeed. I feel like I have known her from another period in time. She reminds me of those housewives during the Ike years. She has a little artisanal shop if you can believe it. She sells candles, soaps and even her own brand of cheeses. Every Tuesday she stops by the shop to sell her wares."

 

    "Don't you want to make her happy?"

 

"She's nice. Very clean and very feminine. She has hinted at marriage but I am not sure I am ready for that. Hell, for all I know I could be married already – kids, the works. Nobody's come forward to claim me, though." Another wry smile. "According to the docs, I wasn't wearing a wedding ring after I was pulled out of the rubble, unless it came off in the affray. They check that stuff, you know." 

 

    "But don't you want stability?" Bruce queried.

 

   "People like us aren't meant for stability, Bruce."

 

   "What do you mean?" The taller man asked.

 

  "I don't know. It just came to me." Jack sipped his coffee. "I prefer not to know about my life before, frankly. Whatever it was, it's gone now. Multiple choice and all that."

 

    Bruce stared back, looking aghast. This was someone who probably had a history that was so painful that he would rather not find out what it was. He did not even want to get rid of that hunch. What if it wasn't true?

 

  Jack sighed.

 

  "You are a billionaire dressed up like you should be on the cover of Scruff magazine and I slaughter animals so that girls like Becky can make a pot roast. How is that stable?"

 

  "You provide an income. You have funds in case an incident like the Joker's attack happens again."

 

   Jack shook his head.

 

   "I mean, don't you ever think that you were made for something beyond the nine to five gig? Oh, who am I kidding? You wipe yourself with oil paintings and you brush your teeth with caviar. You attend black tie events for fun."

 

  "Not any more. I lost everything, you know, but in the end I gained ... I ..I don't know. I have Julie, but ... it's not the money, it's something bigger than that, but it's missing."

 

    "Ah, so you do have a history. You don't strike me as the type who sits quietly in the background though that it's seemingly what you prefer. Were you an art collector?"

 

  Bruce chuckled.

 

    "I did own some Rousseaus but I was never a collector. They were family heirlooms."

 

Jack smiled.

 

   "I wish you laughed more." Jack smiled. The raspberry sauce smeared across his lips. For a quick second, Bruce flinched. He did not know what caused this gut reaction. Jack wiped his lips clean.

 

  "I still think that you had something to do with dangerous animals in your down time. Everyone needs an outlet. I can't imagine how draining those meetings can be."

 

    "I don't remember. Alfred tells me I used to fall asleep during them. No, I prefer to be more hands on." Bruce countered. "Like at the center. We get things done there, Julie and all the other support workers and myself, for the kids. We don't just dole out advice."

 

    "Is that what makes you happy?" Jack leaned forward. A grin slowly forming. Bruce sat back, not sure if he wanted to acknowledge that.

 

  "It's one of a few things."

 

   "What makes you happy?"

 

   "Happiness is a state of mind. I am never happy. You can't be if you want to keep going."

 

   "Okay, what gives you contentment?" Jack pushed the half-finished plate towards Bruce.

 

    Bruce thought for awhile before giving his answer. Most people had 'normal' things like puppies, love, or even money. He didn't even have a superficial answer.

 

   "Justice."

 

   "Hmmmm," Jack acknowledged.

 

  "What makes you happy?" Bruce countered. He saw Jack cut a piece of cheesecake with his fork.

 

  "Just us." Jack sighed. He prodded the piece towards Bruce who eventually relented.

 

     The creamy delectable smothered in raspberry sauce looked inviting on the menu. Although his body was used to clean eating, he had one more taste. His body reacted to the sugar and lard that was making its way down his throat and into his body. It was a foreign agent that felt good momentarily but quickly dissolved.

 

   "This place makes me happy. It also reminds me of me. It's stuck between two time periods but neither is fighting it. It's existing peacefully. Why go back? Maybe this is an opportunity to start something new. I mean, there has to be a reason why we met up again, right?"

 

  "That's crazy talk." Bruce said dismissively.

 

   "Excuse me?" Jack replied in a shocked manner.

 

    Bruce blinked, wondering where Jack's sudden sharp turn had come from. Then Jack seemed to settle, leaning back in the chair with his hands on his stomach, and he felt relief. Bruce tries to undo the damage but at the same time he does not compromise his principles.

 

   "I don't believe in fate. I believe that we are creators of our own path."

 

   "That you are in control." Jack countered darkly.

 

  "Yes," Bruce said sharply. "But what about outside forces that we have no direct control over that have an effect on those plans?"

 

  Bruce stiffened. He knew it wasn't intentional but he had another reminder of the earlier life that was taken away from him. The painful memories were not there anymore but that didn't make it any less poignant.

 

   "Those are…unfortunate events that happen. It isn't preordained." Bruce countered briskly.

 

   "I am not talking about stars and mysticism, silly. I am talking about patterns, currents."

 

"You believe that things are run by a Giant Watch? _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_?"

 

"Let's not get astral here. I am talking about how two people 'get' something and make a connection and I am not talking about the superficial kind you make with stockbrokers and business men." Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching. "What about that man who fell into the chemical waste at the Ace Chemical Factory. What of him? Do you think he wanted that?"

 

  "I guess I am not the Romantic type, then." Bruce said. "Why are we here, Bruce?"

 

   "Because you wanted to try the meat pies." "Ah, so you can be funny. No, you know why we are here. I was the only one who 'got' you. I was the only one who somehow connected with you at the park. Unless you were cruising, I am not sure why you responded to me." Jack said dimly.

 

   "Excuse me?" Bruce was genuinely confused.

 

   "You didn't exactly contradict me when I referred to the bench as an island of peace."

 

    He looked at Bruce who seemed lost in his own thoughts.

 

   Bruce hated _not_ knowing, he hated not having something quantifiable. He wanted facts, numbers, statistics. He hated things that did not have definition and were fluid.

 

Fluid. Water.

 

The Lake.

 

_Oh, God._

 

"Something troubling you?"

 

"It's just…I don't know, and I hate that." Bruce said after a long pause.

 

"Hate what?" Jack's tone was kind.

 

    "I know that there is more to you than what you are saying." Bruce said in a dark tone.

 

  "Excuse me?" Jack countered. "Just because you can't see air or hold water solidly doesn't mean it isn't real, Bruce."

 

  "Stop being cryptic." He hated it when people didn't take things as seriously or if they spoke in riddles.

 

   "I am not being cryptic. I answered your questions. You just don't like my answers." Jack stated simply.

 

  "I'm sorry, it's just….I want to make a connection…"

 

  "I thought we were," Jack said sharply.

 

   "I, I just….want to know more. What if we had a history? What if we met before" Bruce noted a stunning woman in purple in a booth two spaces down. It blended beautifully with her rouge lip stick. Her bright smile as she laughed triggered a deep reaction. Bruce felt a sensation akin to being on a boat in a calm sea, only for an unseen creature, swimming at unfathomable depths, to suddenly pass beneath it; creating a ripple effect that could be felt thousands of meters above, tilting the boat ever so slightly. 

 

  He wanted to know the source of that feeling.

 

  "And if we didn't why not start here? Why can't you just let it be?"

 

   "Because, it isn't enough."

 

  _Not enough_.

 

    _Not good enough_ , Jack thought sadly. Bruce didn't just merely want to observe but to investigate.  He felt like an actor who failed to captivate an audience; a singer who lost her soprano voice.

 

A clown who failed to make people laugh.

 

  Jack began to stand up. Bruce's body stiffened.

 

  "There are some things you cannot control, Bruce. Some things you just have to acknowledge. Hell, sometimes there are some things you just _take_."

 

  He puts down a twenty and turns. Bruce looks up, his eyes stunned, and reached out to touch Jack lightly on the arm.

 

  "Don't go."


End file.
